


The Wildebeest

by Caitric



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11954730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitric/pseuds/Caitric
Summary: You shift from knee to knee and regret sitting seiza to watch an old machine process six words.





	1. Chapter 1

“Getting resurrected feels like being shot.”

The hunter looks up from his rifle, tilts his head as he considers the statement.

“Hm.” is all the response you get before he resumes cleaning the thing, but by the way his faceplates seem to tighten up you guess he's still considering your statement. You shift from knee to knee and regret sitting seiza to watch an old machine process six words.

Once he does reply, his optics are still on the gun resting across his folded legs.

“Sometimes, yes.”

A third blue optic flickers on within the shadows of his hood, a weak voice whispers something your human ears can't hear, and the hunter sputters static. Half an hour ago you would have thought he malfunctioned, but now you know it's only laughter. “Ghost wonders if you were reckless before dying. Apparently the little extra twinge is them getting revenge for your, Iunno, trying to reason with Vex or some other stupid shit like that.”

Your face heats up behind the mask, and your own Ghost -recently named Owl by yourself- gives a knowing look. You're glad only she witnessed your “accident”, though you would've preferred if it had gone by unnoticed altogether.

“You've tried that?” The Exo looks up, one mechanical brow raised in question, “have you tried reasoning with them? The Vex.”

“The Vex are a hivemind,” he huffs. “Never got much time to try, once one of them knew I was near, all of them came crawling out of thin air. Had more luck with Fallen. The Cabal though?”

An incline of the head toward the fire on the horizon, the big, orange-tinted Traveler above it, “not even gonna try.”

“What about the Hive?” He gives you a look that asks you if you're stupid. “They _are_ sentient.”

A staticy wheeze is all the warning you get before the hunters' Ghost bursts out laughing, and it doesn't take long for the other Guardians shoulders to start shaking with his own.

“You think a single thought of peace exists in Hive brains?” he chuckles. “You're really green for a Warlock, aren't you?”

You pout, because you're two weeks old, _thank you very much._ When you risk a quick glance at Owl, she's rolling her optic at you.

You just know your next resurrection is going to be downright horrible.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He's pretty weak.

The thought hits you as you watch the hunter, Ket-15 (a name that only departed his mouth after much pestering, and hadn't he scared you shitless by putting a knife to your throat and threatening to cut you open from collar to crotch for said pestering, you would be proud of the feat), stumble through the underbrush.

The next thing you notice is the hole in his boot, the machinery working within, the torn ligaments and sputtering wires and crushed sensors filled with twigs and mud and other things that had no business being inside a body of any kind.

You feel something stick your heart and leave cold, clotting fear in the hole it created, because this selfish, uptight hunter and his mellow Ghost who took you under their wing and told you you'll be fine are dying a slow, painful death right in front of your eyes. You stop, and when Ket turns to you with a quizzical grunt, you're glad your helmet hides your wobbly lip.

“I want to stop for the day.”

The hunter sighs. It's weary and annoyed all at once. “Kid, we're right out in the open.”

“I don't care.”

His Ghost gives you a knowing look, and Owl materializes by your side. You can faintly feel her prodding at your mind through the connection you share. “There's a cave, just northwest of here.”

The angry, sputtering chatter that leaves the Exos' mouth is enough to make you flinch, “A cave! You know what else lives in caves, Ghost?” His voice cracks, one gloveless, half-stripped hand strikes out at the world around them, “Hive! And Fallen! And fucking fungi!”

“Fungi would probably be worst of all,” Ket's Ghost sighs from within the hunters hood. When you seek it out its upper petal is half covering its optic in a show of resigned mirth.

“It's gross and slippery,” the hunter defends himself.

“The deadliest kind of gross and slippery,” his Ghost clarifies. “If we walked in there, one of us might end up permanently dead,” it sighs wistfully, “ah, mushrooms. The silent killers, no robot ever stood a chance!”

You watch every plate on the exo's face shift, blue dots trying to read your visor. Owl is processing quietly where she hovers by your head. And you're trying your hardest not to laugh.

The Ghost winks and instantly does you in.

As you laugh, doubled over and distracted, Ket relaxes and reaches into his hood to cup his Ghost, press it closer into the soft synthetic flesh of his throat. “Well done,” he whispers, and the quiet warble he gets in return makes him smile

 


	3. Chapter 3

Your chest feels too tight, your feet too heavy, and you desperately wish for the body hanging off your shoulder to carry its own weight for a minute or two. You want to shake it until blue eyes flicker back to life and tell you “everything's gonna be okay”.

You know you're nearing four months alive at the hunters side. You've been selfish, and petty, and have argued half the points the other pair have made. You've failed to catch your own food. You've failed to distract yourself from facts. And the guardian and ghost pair at your side have been waning the entire time, watching you battle fear of losing something you thought was safety with anger and harsh words.

You've cried against the hunters chest in dark caves, and he's cradled you and told you how you'll get spores in your eyes, and that fungi will start growing in them if you don't dry them. Now you know what hopeless weeping does to a person, and you know what sleep is like without dreams of open plains and menacing stars in the sky.

The metal hand bumping against your chest twitches, but you don't stop to check on the hunter. Owl materializes by your side, petals droopier than when you first saw her, but your wounds don't need much to heal: your boots are well-worn and the scrapes you've suffered scab over by themselves. You don't touch weird berries or stagnant water, and so the two of you hold together well enough.

“You have to eat.”

Her voice is quiet, and a different tired from that of the Ghost resting securely in the exo's backpack. When you don't respond her little frame spins around her. “You have to sleep! You can't keep going like this, it won't do them any good.”

You slow to a stop because you know what she says is true; the hole in your stomach has been there for days, as have the bags under your eyes and the lead in your legs.

You look at her, “I can't hunt. If you know where to find shelter we can sleep, but I can't hunt.”

She hisses static at you, and you roll your eyes at her. “I can't believe I resurrected a Dark-damned warlock with not an ounce of imagination in his tiny, light-addled brain!” She musters before zooming off between the trees. You follow her without comment.

When you catch up, Owl is hanging by the doorway to an empty old house. The forest has reclaimed much of the lawn, and the road leading up to it is cracked, but its walls still stand and the roof is intact in places. Not a single part of it looks homely or inviting, but you still step over the threshold to put your dirty feet on the tiled floor

Farther inside is a moldy, rat-infested sofa and a fireplace that's filled with ash, on the floor is what you suspect is the remains of a coffee table, most of which must have been burned to give the previous tenants some warmth. The animals scatter as you sit the Exo down on the remaining piece of furniture, and you ignore the little sound of distaste that escapes your Ghost in favor of stretching your aching back.

“Will you know the way back here if we leave?” you watch Ket's head loll over the back of the sofa, his body limp like a huge metal doll without strings. You look away, swallow.

“Sure,” Owl says, “I've scanned the area and mapped it out pretty well, I think. We'll find our way back easy.”

“Any streams around?”

“Mm-hm! No stagnant ones, either. And there's barely any pollution in the water, it should be safe to drink.”

You nod, and she zips past you and to the door, waiting impatiently as you remove the empty flasks from the hunter's belt to attach to your own.

The stream turns out to be a brook running down the hillside, and it's pretty far from the house. You pluck a handful fir needles and chew them on the way, grimacing, and you eagerly let the water chase away any trace of the bitter tang the sad excuse for a meal left behind.

It's while you're filling the flasks that you spot it.

A rabbit, a limping one, further down the brook. Looking for a drink, just like you had been.

In hindsight you understand that your lizard-brain had seen nothing but grilled meat with a nice helping of fir needles. But in the moment you splashed down the river like a crazy person, startling the poor rabbit into fleeing. It was surprisingly fast for having a bad leg, and it knows the area better than you, but in the end you corner it at the edge of a cliff, and you do things to its head with a rock, things you'd rather forget.

Owl caught up seconds later, and had stopped with an “oh”.

Beneath them, in a valley between mountains, lay the sharp-edged, gleaming and very much alive piece of an old God.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Finding the Shard allowed your hunter friend and his Ghost to heal up, get some much-needed rest in a tiny room on the Farm, top up their near-empty reserves of Light, and get word on the going-ons in the community.

Or rather, dressing up in fancy cloaks and charming civilians, while commenting on the robe of every warlock within hearing range.

“You're being a child,” you mutter where you sit by the fire you're morosely roasting a rabbit over.

“He _is_ being a child,” Ket's Ghost confirms, floating up to your side and settling on your shoulder. Owl looks at you from where she's hovering on the other side of the fire, but shrugs it off. “He's actually a large, charming hunter with a stupid grudge against warlocks and a wardrobe consisting mostly of fancy capes, but calling him a child is quite on point.”

“... Are all hunters like this?”

The Ghosts' optic swivels to look at you. “Yes. And the mentioned grudge is shared between them, too. However, I sometimes wonder if the warlocks aren't just as childish for actually taking offense.”

You spin the rabbit, listening to the exo laughing in the distance and the Ghost's hum of consideration as it turns its eye to your dinner.

“He called me a mud-covered wildebeest.” You sniff, rub at the dirt on your robe.

“Well, you are wearing a beige robe with stripes. And you are covered in mud.” Ghost glances over again. “To your waist. You're covered in mud to your actual waist, child. How did you manage that?”

You rub at your nose, “fell in the river.”

“The river? Whatever were you doing near that half-swamp.”

“Washing my face,” you shrug. “Tried to catch frogs.”

“He really likes frogs,” Owl titters and you give her a scathing look. “I'm really lucky he didn't name me after those slimy amphibians.”

Ghost laughs and you feel betrayed. The rabbit sizzles but at least it doesn't comment.

You're deep in your dark, rabbit-addled thoughts when a metal hand claps down on your shoulder. You look up and a pair of blue optics blink down at you. “Traveler, what happened to your face,” Ket says, plates shifting into a half-smile as he grabs the end of his cloak to rub at your nose. It comes away dirty and you pout, hugging your muddy, wet, wildebeest legs closer to your muddy, wet, wildebeest self. You can't even hide in your hair as your head is shaved, and the collar of your robe is almost non-existent.

“Tried to catch frogs,” you repeat. Owl wheezes. A chuckle escapes the hunter at your back and another pinch of betrayal makes you frown deeper.

Something taps the top of your head.

When you look up a box is held in front of you. It's battered, a faded blue with white dots, and there's dry plastic tatters where it's been cut open and taped shut over the years.

“Better let that robe you got there be for frog-catching only, then. Can't let your warlock friends see a hunter looking better'n one of their own, 'specially if the two of us travel together.” The box gently taps your forehead again, “Happy belated resurrection day, my friend.”

You look at it, stunned, and carefully take it out of Kets' hands. He lays an arm around your shoulders as he sits, optics on your face as you take the lid off the gift and lay eyes on the clean, embroidered robe folded neatly within it.

You tear up, and you don't know if it's because of this soft thing in your lap or the arm slung over your shoulders like it had been for so many days of walking, but the exo holds your head closer and touches his forehead to your temple.

“And thank you,” he whispers, and you feel his plates shift into a gentle smile against your skin, “for my life, dearest wildebeest.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I finished it at 3.15am, it hasn't been beta-read, and I've classes in the morning.


End file.
